


Dark Skies

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-Shot Werewolf AU.</p><p>Sherlock and John are on a surveillance case that goes to hell. With John wounded, Sherlock goes on the attack to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deuxexmycroft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/gifts).



> I completely adore deuxexmycroft and all that she does. I know she's working hard on LOFAS so here's a little fic to show my appreciation. :3

One moment, they were blending into the darkness, observing the Baskerville base at a distance when suddenly--- lights—jeeps—rifles-- _dogs_ … Sherlock bolted, the instinct to run overriding all other senses.

He was gripping John’s wrist when the doctor ran into him with a clumsy stagger right before Sherlock felt the impact of the bullet in John’s body. It tumbled them down a drainage ditch and John crumpled, wet leaves in his hair, blood running into the mud. Without thought, Sherlock roped an arm around John and hauled him up against his groans of pain and broke them into an unsteady run.

“They have dogs—“ John panted, chest heaving.

“I know”

“Tracking dogs.”

“I _know_.” Sherlock growled.

He pulled them deeper into the forest, weaving under trunks and brush. He ignored the slight flexing of John’s body, struggling against him. John was tired, in pain but they couldn’t stop, not yet.

He poured all his concentration into weaving the most confusing trail possible, deliberately tracking them into water and back out again, before heading for some underbrush. John’s adrenaline was high, sharp in the air along with the metallic scent of his blood and Sherlock could only hope it could be sustained long enough for them to be sure they had escaped before John was overcome with either the pain or blood loss. The thought slithered into Sherlock and he held onto John tighter.

Sherlock slowed their pace before stopping at a thick of thin, spindly trees. The mist this deep in the woods was calming, chilling his hot skin. This close to the full moon his body ran like a furnace, and being physically in the forest, something that instinctually felt so much like home, was making his muscles jittery and his blood run heated.

John was shivering, huddled against a moss-coated tree. Sherlock knew he was spent. His jacket closed tightly against his body, creasing his brow at him with worry. Blood seeped down his leg, draining down his jeans.

Sherlock lifted his arm to wipe away the perspiration beading on his forehead before he shifted alongside John and gave a soft, worried noise.

John gave a hard shake and slumped forward. Sherlock caught him by the crook of his elbow and gently lowered him, John giving a grunt in pain.

Systematically he ran his hands over John to assess the damage, feeling the wet warmth of blood seeping through a hole against his side. He didn’t need to see or feel the blood; he could smell the metal in the air.

Adrenaline was fading and John was shivering with the beginnings of shock.  Sherlock’s hand brushed against his forehead, palm placed against his side and John jerked as a probing finger touched the open wound.

“One shot, through and through, clean.” John pulled out his Browning, wincing, hand shaking. Both of them shaking. “I’ve got full rounds. Go.”

Sherlock snorted, cupping his hand against John’s side, impeding blood flow. “Thank you for the report, _Captain_.”

“Sherlock you need to go,” John pleaded and his voice hitched. “You need to go, you can make it. I’ve got a good twenty minutes before I’m in proper shock. They’ll find me, the… the dogs… they’ll find me and they’ll see I’m human and I’ll be taken in.” He took a shuddering breath. “I’ve got the Browning in case things go badly. But they’ll kill you, Sherlock. On sight once the dogs give the signal.”

Sherlock grinned, but knew John couldn’t see it in the darkness. “They’ll try.”

“This is serious you git!” John took a suddenly sharp breath, struggling. Sherlock felt an uncomfortable pang of fear, a chill biting at his heart.

“John, let me.”

“No.”

“ _John_.”

“God Damnit, Sherlock!” John hissed but they both froze at the sudden braying of dogs, closing in. “Run, you idiot!” He shoved at Sherlock’s chest, but the other was immovable. John was shaking, full body wrack of encroaching fear and shock. “God Damnit. _Please_.” He begged.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and removed his coat, out layer damp but the lining still dry and warm with his burning body heat. He placed it around John’s shoulders like a cape and kissed John’s neck, pulse thundering against his lips.

“ _Let me_.” He pulled away, watching John flinch as the dogs howled in the distance.

“I---“ John stopped himself.

“They shot you.” _They hurt you, I’ll kill them._ “Twenty minutes?” He stood and began unbuttoning his shirt, untucking it from his trousers. “I’ll be back in ten.”

“Alright.” John conceded. “Alright but don’t…Don’t kill them.”

Sherlock growled and John lifted his head and somehow in the murky darkness, found Sherlock’s eyes. “I mean it. Just… scare them. Drive them off.  That includes the dogs. Just lead them away.”

“I’ll try.” He conceded. But John’s permission to shift is all he really needed.

“Sherlock,” there was a sharp rise in John’s tone. Fear. “It’s dark.” He said quietly.

“Ten minutes John. I promise. You’ll be safe.” His nostrils flared, the scent of John’s blood shuttering his vision in a crimson tinted tide he struggled to keep at bay. The animal was snarling in his chest.

He slipped out of his shirt and stripped off tank top and balled them both up tightly. He knelt again, placing a hand against John’s neck and breathing in his scent, placing his lips against his collarbone. John was still shivering, teeth clenched in pain. He lifted John’s shirt and placed his bundled clothing against the wound. John sucked in an angry hiss before pressing the cloth against the gunshot, staunching the blood flow and giving a curt nod in acknowledgement.

“I love you.” He murmured into John’s skin. The same spot on John’s throat he always made those words as if someday, they would be physically impressed into John’s flesh. Sherlock often fantasized it was one way to leave a permanent mark on his neck that John wouldn't object to.

“I know.” John’s hand found his and squeezed gently. “Please… Don’t kill them. Promise me.” He closed his eyes and he felt Sherlock press a kiss into his hair. “Sherlock—“

“I’ll be right back.” Sherlock whispered.

“ _Sherlock_!” He reached, but touched nothing but darkness.

Sherlock was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock concentrated on his lungs filling with air, on the sharpening input of his senses, and on the glowing moon hidden by clouds. It might not be visible, but its pull was there and the draw could bring some wolves to madness. Some--but not him.

He concentrated, hearing the low rumble of engines and rubber tires treading over branches and logs. The sharp, anxious barks and howls of tracking dogs.

They were relentless. Their hounds had scented a wolf and they wouldn’t stop, their orders clear.

Seek and destroy.

Sherlock’s perspective shifted, the bite of cool on his skin being replaced with warm fur. Dark colors being replaced with a new spectrum of light, detecting movements and shapes, localizing on all sounds in the woods.

He lifted his head, ears twitching and swiveling behind him. John’s ragged breathing a few meters behind him. Still steady. John's blood filled his senses and pooled inside him awakened rage.

The hunters were about to learn how it felt to become prey.

 

* * *

 

John closed his eyes at the first gunshot, body instinctively bracing against the onslaught of sounds. Screaming. Howling. A yelp before silence. A spray of bullets. Artillery fire. _Screaming_.  He curled his body, pressing Sherlock’s clothing hard into his side. The blood was clotting and the cloth drying into his wound, tacky and pulling his skin tight.

Another terrified scream—a young man—before being violently silenced and John’s throat tightened. _Oh God, Sherlock. No. No no no. Sherlock…_

He closed and opened his eyes, but it was all the same. Pitch black. He shivered and felt the cold beads of sweat beginning to work its way down his neck.

Another howl, piercing in the air. Pitch black. Too dark. All too dark.

Minutes ticked by and gradually the screaming, the bullets, the howling---stopped. Only the sound of his blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart in the void. The forest was utterly silent, even the animals sensing something terrifyingly unnatural in their woods.

And in the pitch, a glint… glowing between the trees. Two wild, intelligent golden eyes slanted on a dark, triangular head.

John swallowed, relieved. He held out his hand. “Sherlock,” he nodded with energy he knew he didn’t have. “Please…”

The golden eyes disappeared and with a brush of cool air Sherlock was beside him. The clouds parted briefly, moonlight filtering through the trees and John caught glimpses of Sherlock’s pale, naked body—throat—jaws—hands--coated with sheets of blood.

“I had to.” Sherlock placed a bloodied hand on John’s knee. “I had to John. I had to. I couldn’t…Couldn’t let them…” Sherlock simply shook his head and leaned it against John, inhaling his scent, his _mate’s_ scent. “Do you understand?” He was shivering ---from the cold, exhaustion or excitement. John couldn’t tell.

He nodded vacantly, lifting his hand and raking fingers through Sherlock’s hair, bits of leaf on the tips. He was soothing a feral, but terrifyingly intelligent beast, he knew that. He drew in a slow, steady breath. 

“Alright.” He murmured, exhausted. “We have to go.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John cleaned and stitched himself up. The hole was small, precise. He’d lost blood. He was pale and tired but so wonderfully strong and resolute Sherlock felt a well of pride fill his chest. John’s heart rate and blood pressure was remarkably steady, and Sherlock’s senses told him there wasn’t an infection in the wound site.

Sherlock showered. Scoured off caked mud and browning blood off his skin and watched the dark mixture snake its way around to the drain. He bundled up the clothes used as a temporary bandage for John, along with John’s own bloodied clothes and dumped it into a paper bag to be burned later. Any scent of John’s blood sent him into a feral rage and it was unacceptable. He placed the bag outside their temporary housing on the balcony, snarling at it with displeasure.

John was bandaged, dry and safe. But he was quiet, sitting on the bed and looking so tired and nervous. Sherlock _hated_ this part. Hated how after every shift, every cell in John's body vibrated with nervousness.

He shut the curtains tight and walked over to the light switch, hand at the ready and waiting for John’s signal. He knew John was watching him out of the corner of his eye and minutely, John shook his head.

“Hallway light alright?” He asked quietly and John gave a jerky nod. Sherlock made his way to the hallway, turned on the light, before making his way back and flicking off the bedroom switch. He climbed onto the bed and put his arm around John’s chest, nosing his hairline.

“Lay down.” It was a calm command and John obeyed, stiffly folding himself and shifting on the bed, Sherlock guiding him. It was a slow process. John grunting in pain but Sherlock was gentle. These were the only times he knew how to be.

“Did you take the pain pills?” He asked quietly and he felt John nod against him.

They were silent. Only the steady inhales and exhales of their lungs. Sherlock’s thumb worked mindless circles on John’s hip.

“You scared me.” So soft, Sherlock was certain only his hearing would pick up the breath of air.

He pulled John’s hip closer to his own, feeling his warm skin and soft, cotton pants under his fingertips. And he was sorry, so very sorry… but the words wouldn’t form on his lips. He nuzzled John’s nape in apology, hoping John would understand the gesture, hoping he would understand his language.

John shifted under the sheets, turning and grunting in pain and Sherlock released his hip briefly before settling back down once John was facing him. He placed a hand over the bandage and scented for any new blood, nervous about John breaking his stitches.

“You can’t.” John stopped himself and Sherlock searched his face, illuminated by the soft light in the hallway. “You can’t just.” He stopped himself again and closed his eyes.

“I’m—I’m sorry, John.” He found the words. He felt it in places inside his body he never knew existed. Never had he felt this kind of guilt before. Not of his actions, but of how it made John feel. Maybe John would understand...John would _see_ if he were like him. Another. This feeling... He never knew it was possible before John. “I would _never_ hurt you.”

“I know that.” John replied softly, and Sherlock huffed in quiet surprise as John’s fingers brushed up against his pectorals. “I know you wouldn’t. But you can’t just… kill…people. Sherlock. You can’t just…” John sounded so very tired, shaken to his core. Sherlock knew he was still clinging to the vestiges of shock.

 _But they hurt you. They were **hunting** us._ But he knew John wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t see it. Instead Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. Gently, softly and John tilted his head back in beautiful submission— _it would be easy, so very easy to sink fangs into that skin, create another creature like himself, the temptation called, the wolf begging_ —only for a moment before pulling away and settling himself under Sherlock’s chin.

“I love you.” John breathed against his Adam’s apple and Sherlock curled a hand back around his waist, fingers testing the bandages of his side, reassuring himself John was safe, clean, dry and healing. _I love you._ Simple words, carving into Sherlock’s skin, soothing the animal inside.

“I know.” He murmured.

“You can be better. I know you can. You don’t have to kill people.”

Sherlock nodded faintly. “I’ll try and be better.” He lied. “You need to sleep now.” He watched John close his eyes, and finally settle against his chest.

Maybe the next time… The next time John bared his throat, the next time he was in danger, Sherlock would turn him. Then John would see. John would understand.

Sherlock closed his eyes as well.

Maybe the next time. 

**Author's Note:**

> :3
> 
> belladonnaq.tumblr.com


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